


Spilt Wine

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Pilgrim's Crown [6]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-06 18:17:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16837864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: She is deceiving without uttering a single lie; she has been doing that for weeks, months – it feels like ages. Iovara misreads her uneasiness and sadness, again, mistaking it for fear.“Worry not,” she says, with a reassuring smile. “No harm will befall  us here. You’re safe.”Deòiridh wants to laugh and scream and then just cry. Instead, she smiles back wanly. “Yes, I know.”





	Spilt Wine

**Author's Note:**

> (Prompt: "Formal dinner with tense atmosphere.")

The king of Ossionus welcomes them at his court warily, but kindly. He is not overly zealous to join their cause, but he is willing to listen – Iovara calls his behaviour prudent, and it makes him more credible in her eyes. Besides, her mind-mages sense no false notes in his words when he talks of wishing to change his life, to find a higher purpose.

No lies, but not the whole truth, either. Deòiridh knows. She has been here before. She recalls a high table, set with fine food and wine, candles burning, and she a quiet shadow at Thaos’ side as he was talking to the king, convincing him there was a way to save his soul, to atone for his sins and find absolution. At a price.

And the monarch listened. She has not yet met anyone who would not listen to Thaos, at least at first.

She would know even without that memory. Because Thaos is here, waiting. Hiding his presence, masking it, but she senses him, a faint glimmer just at the edge of her soul. Like a dim light at the end of a dark corridor; a candle burning somewhere far. She would always recognise this fire, because now it burns in her own soul as well, blinding enough that for a moment she can pretend she cannot see anything else.

But she does. She is deceiving without uttering a single lie; she has been doing that for weeks, months – it feels like ages. Iovara misreads her uneasiness and sadness, again, mistaking it for fear.

“Worry not,” she says, with a reassuring smile. “No harm will befall us here. You’re safe.”

Deòiridh wants to laugh and scream and then just cry. Instead, she smiles back wanly. “Yes, I know.”

Iovara can inspire people, can make them follow her... but she cannot read them. Not well enough.

In the evening, having given them time to bathe and rest after their journey, the king invites them to dine with him. And then Deòiridh knows.

Iovara is talking with the king – a quiet, but heated discussion – an almost forgotten goblet of wine in her hands. She is still cautious, but more relaxed than she has been ever since leaving the order. But some others – mind-mages, mostly – are tense, seemingly without a reason. Their talents are not subtle enough; they sense something, but it is too vague to even be a warning.

There is a brief flash of light in Deòiridh’s soul, a burst of flame. And then she hears footsteps. A tall robed figure walks into the chamber, looking straight at Iovara.

“Welcome, my child.” Thaos’ voice is soft and smooth, but it echoes in the hall like a tolling bell.

Iovara drops the goblet, her eyes gleaming with fear, and the wine spills onto the floor. In the dim light, dark stains look like blood.

Some of her followers jump up, ready to fight, but there are guards flocking into the hall now, all armed. It is mostly for show; with the powers Woedica grants him, Thaos would probably not need their help. Iovara glances around the room in defeat, and shakes her head.

Deòiridh is glad, because she knows these people, because she has lived among them for some time, because a few of them used to be her fellow acolytes and priests she knew... and if they have to die, she is thankful for the small mercy that she will not witness it. She hopes that Thaos will not reveal her role in this, even though she knows better.

But before he calls her, Iovara turns and looks at her, eyes burning. “You lied to me,” she says, in disbelief, disappointed by her own gullibility and Deòiridh’s betrayal.

“She’s never lied to you.” Thaos raises his hand, beckoning, and Deòiridh hesitantly approaches him to stand at his side. There is a cold smile on his lips, but no malice in his eyes, just disapproval and faints traces of anger, like shallow cracks in ice. “She let you lie to yourself,” he explains to Iovara calmly. “And she never betrayed you.” Gently, he lays his hand on Deòiridh’s shoulder, and she can feel the warmth radiating from his fingers even through her thick woollen robe. He squeezes her shoulder lightly; a gesture of approval, comfort, a reward. “She has simply never stopped being loyal to me.”


End file.
